


Now or Never Now

by Wheely_Jessi



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Childhood Memories, Children's Literature, Disability, F/F, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Reunions, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Important Conversations, Internment Camp Memories (Conversations), Memories, Musical References, Nursing, Reading, Reunions, Talking, Terminal Illnesses, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-08-27 16:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16706050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: A fluff-with-feelings journey into the reunion between Patsy and her father in Hong Kong. Inspired by Metric's song, 'Now or Never Now', which gives it its title: https://youtu.be/U7DUOcCgmpU





	1. Early July 1962

**Author's Note:**

> Another case of me getting a song into my head connecting it very strongly to a certain Nurse Mount. I saw Metric (the Canadian band) on Tuesday, and - aside from the fact that they were incredible live - 'Now or Never Now' from their latest album gave me many, many feels. So here's the result of that, which has grown from its original one-shot. I hope you enjoy the Mount family fluff*. Also, because I'm obsessed with continuity, it fits in with my general head-canon for Patsy (before we knew about either the travels around the world or the move to Scotland) quite specifically. But it can absolutely be read on its own.
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to those in the States <3
> 
> *In this, as in my main canon-era fic, Mr Mount has Motor Neurone Disease in memory of a family friend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy and her father start some important conversations.

‘ _It hurts to turn the radio on_  
_My stamina’s gone_  
_My spirit is weak_  
_Because every time I start to move on_  
_Keep hearing that song_  
_I’m brought to my knees_  
_To permanently see in reverse_  
_Take the remorse out of defeat_  
_Because everything that’s under my skin_  
_Where I end and begin_  
_Still belongs to me_  
  
_I’m fine to sit and stare at the door_  
_Can’t run any more_  
_Too weary to stand_  
_I’m bound in the effect with the cause_  
_My life is on pause_  
_It’s out of my hands_  
_To perfectly perform in reverse_  
_There’s no way to rehearse_  
_There’s nothing to plan_  
_Because everything that’s under my skin_  
_Where I end and begin_  
_That’s who I am_  
  
_Oh, only silence can restore_  
_The sense of place I had before_  
_Oh, only silence can repair_  
_My sense of self I lost somewhere_  
_Oh oh, oh, only silence can restore_  
_The sense of place I had before_  
_Oh, only silence can repair_  
_My sense of self I lost somewhere_  
  
_Because the last time I let myself feel this way_  
_It was a long, long time ago_  
_And now we get so scared, and we get so scared_  
_To be nowhere left alone_  
_Because the last time you let yourself feel this way_  
_It was a long, long time ago_  
_And now we get so scared, and we get so scared_  
_To be nowhere left alone_  
  
_Because it’s now or never now_  
_It’s now or never now, now, now_  
_Because it’s now or never now_  
_It’s now or never now, now, now_  
_Because it’s now or never now_  
_It’s now or never now, now, now_  
_Because it’s now or never now_  
_It’s now or never now, now, now, now, now, now, now’_

 ~

 

‘Patience?’

Blue eyes snap up from the book on which they are ostensibly intent to meet the identical pair staring directly towards them. ‘Yes, Papa? Are you uncomfortable?’

He swallows, and the small sound seems to echo around the room, despite the low hum of the midday news on the wireless between his bed and her chair. ‘No,’ he manages eventually, ‘but could that be turned off, please?’

Patsy looks pained at the possibility that he could have been disturbed, and Charles wants to assuage her guilt, but his speech is too slow to get there before she does. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says softly as she reaches to turn the requisite dial, ‘is it keeping you awake?’

‘No,’ Charles chokes out again, and the nurse in his daughter wants to tell him to stop struggling; to save his strength. Yet the _daughter_ in his (unofficial, informal) nurse knows all too well what it will mean when the struggle does stop. And, now that she has him again, she finds she is reluctant to let him go. So she stays silent – waiting with her namesake virtue (which was, of course, bestowed on her by him) for the continuation of this second concerted attempt at communication. ‘I merely wondered what it is you are reading.’

‘Oh,’ she murmurs, her cheeks briefly turning a similar shade to her hair, and he is reminded of how much _she_ reminds him of Lizzy. But, some four months into their reunion, this makes him smile instead of cry. Because it simply solidifies the sentiment which made him call her “home”; for all that this is the _same_ sentiment which, nearly twenty years ago now, made him send her away.

She is his last link to her.

To _them_.

And that is not something he is willing to relinquish lightly. Not after the almost two decades it took to repair the rift. He had thought – as, apparently, had Patsy – that shutting himself up in silence was the only way to continue on without them. He knows now that nothing could be further from the truth.

He knows that because she is here.

His patient Patience.

At long last.

And, at long last, he is ready to talk. Whilst he can. Because now he is the patient, and she is taking care of him as he ought to have done of her. But, with both their lives on pause, he has no excuse not to make up for lost time. Even if the roles are reversed. No excuse except being too scared to begin.

So he starts with literature; seeking to sustain his failing voice through the vehicle of other people’s words. ‘Well, Patsy?’ he coaxes, not wanting her to lose her “Lizzyness” by emulating _him_ too much and avoiding questions.

His use of her nickname is the sufficient surprise he hoped it would be – and it is now her turn to smile instead of cry. ‘ _The Secret Garden_ , actually,’ she offers, seemingly nonchalant, but the title provides the key to her earlier embarrassment. A children’s book when she is no longer a child. And yet…

Charles nods. ‘You loved that story. I used to read it to you at bedtime.’

They both absorb the past tense in his phrasing, and wait, wondering which of them will articulate this acknowledgement first. After a moment to mull, she decides that he has done enough for one afternoon, and takes up the baton he has so bravely extended on this mutual marathon neither of them really possesses the stamina to run. This is the first peek into their past in their present, however long they might have already been living there together, and she is ready to relive it deliberately today. Because they are ending and beginning, and it belongs to them. It is now or never now, and she would rather now than never. ‘I did,’ she says, and he sees the lopsided grin they always shared. ‘Would you like to hear it again, Papa?’

Charles nods a second time, returning her smile – perhaps she inherited at least _a few_ positive traits from him. ‘All right…’

He lets the agreement hang, and Patsy watches as his gaze drops wistfully to the duvet draped over his frail frame, starkly outlined in the vast expanse of his double bed. ‘Shall I slide in next to you?’ she asks, waiting only for a third nod before bending to remove her slippers, and endeavouring to retain an ounce of decorum amidst the glee with which she is suddenly overcome as she slips in beside him. Delia would be collapsing into giggles if she could see this scenario. Or perhaps fainting with shock.

Heaven knows what Agatha (his actual nurse!) will say when she wanders in at teatime and finds them like this, Patsy muses a little further as they settle. But, taking his trembling hand in her left and holding the book with her right, she pushes away her propensity to plan. For, no matter how many times she may have remembered such situations, and even rehearsed their reprises in the vaguest hope of future reconciliations, this is the real thing. It is so much better – and worse – than she ever imagined; but that is a blessing because she is _feeling_ again. They both are. And the last time they _let_ themselves feel this way? It was a long, long time ago. Long enough, as Charles himself observed, that the book she chose was age-appropriate, although such distinctions seem arbitrary and unnecessary.

‘Ready?’ she asks, smoothing the pages in the same manner she smoothed over the covers.

He nods again, swallowing – determined to speak once more before they start. ‘I’ve missed Mary Lennox.’

She meets his eyes as steadily as he had hers when this conversation began. ‘So have I.’


	2. Mid-July 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy helps Charles with lunch, followed by them beginning another book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has grown beyond the original one-shot it was planned to be, mostly because I just couldn't get them out of my head this weekend. I also thought it might be nice to have something shorter that I can post more regularly, as I'm in a very deadline-heavy time with my PhD and need to devote most of my energy to that. I'm still very invested in both _Hopes and Fears_ and _Forget-Me-Not_ and promise to finish them.
> 
> In the meantime, hopefully this slight diversion from Poplar to Hong Kong is acceptable.

‘Come now, Papa; just a few mouthfuls and then we’ll choose a new book.’ Patsy keeps her voice level, carefully resting the spoon on the edge of the soup bowl she holds in her left hand, and locks eyes with Charles. Since the reading sessions they started earlier this month have been proceeding so well (albeit slowly to prevent fatigue), she has taken over from Agatha for the lunchtime stint – because, if she is then spending the afternoons with him, it makes sense.

The fact that it allows father and daughter some precious extra time together was not verbalised by any of the parties involved in the decision, but they all prefer it that way. It is what they are used to, two of them at least, and the third is too professional to comment.

They are used to this, as well, Patsy thinks; silent standoffs over emotions they feel unable to express. Except now, it is he performing the role of petulant patient and she that of conciliatory caregiver. She had hated how easily she got sick after the camps, not yet understanding the havoc bereavement could wreak on one’s immune system from a slightly more objective medical perspective, and had hated even more that her mother was not there. Consequently, when he sent her away to school, she had hidden her shock at being abandoned behind the relief that there would be the relative anonymity of the ‘san’ or sick bay.

As an adult, of course, she can see this for the cover it was – and that _he_ was covering, too, whilst trying to do his best in a completely unfamiliar situation and feeling fraught with grief and anxiety of his own.

So she takes _this_ situation, now ironically as familiar as the footwork she had been required to perfect for fencing, and determines that any hit will be as gentle as she can make it. ‘Please, Papa?’

Her voice is no longer as level as she would like. Charles hears the plaintive edge to her tone and looks away, unable to bear the sight of her disappointment when he replies with a refusal. ‘I can’t,’ he says, the sound more pitiful than petulant, and she is surprised enough to seek to understand his side instead of arguing hers again. So she simply nods, giving him a cue to continue. ‘It’s too much like –’

He cannot finish the sentence, but it is no matter. She knows. They had chosen the soy-based vegetable broth purely for its combined ease of swallowing and the nutritional properties, not even contemplating the _emotional_ weight it might carry. Charles had not been brought up on the cuisine of the continent, after all, so such food would have predominantly negative associations. _Why had she not considered that!?_ Delia would never have been so careless, Patsy thinks ruefully as she curses under her breath, before catching herself and remembering that such words would not be tolerated by either of her parents. At least there is an explanation for his reluctance to eat over the past few days. ‘Would you like something else? Custard, perhaps?’ she asks softly, smiling as he nods. ‘All right. That’s easy enough to organise.’

As she moves to place the bowl on the tray resting on his dresser, he lets out an anguished moan, and she spins on her slippered heel to assess if the cause is physical or psychological. From the look of pure terror greeting her concerned gaze, it is the latter. ‘Don’t leave –’ he stutters, before breaking into a fit of wheezing coughs, at which she turns again and slams the bowl down (without breaking it, but only just) and strides to thump him gently on the back.

Clearly she is not alone in her panic about abandonment.

‘I won’t,’ she promises when the spasmodic sounds subside. ‘We can telephone the kitchen. They’ll be happy to bring it to you.’ Charles seems happy with this suggestion, despite the brief disturbance it will entail, and Patsy grins wider, moving again merely to use the telephone on the small table near the chair she is beginning to think of as hers. The cord of the receiver is long enough that she may return to him once she has dialled, and hold his hand as she speaks, which makes them both glad. ‘Hello,’ she says brightly, and he wonders when exactly she became so friendly with his staff.

It is no surprise, really; she was always chatty as a child, when they let her be.

He must have become lost in reminiscing because, when he next looks at her properly, she has rung off. ‘Well?’ he asks; his voice even raspier than usual so soon after that attack.

‘They’re bringing it right away. It won’t take long to mix some up.’

He nods, about to utter gratitude, but she shakes her head – and they are in a silent standoff once more. This one is far shorter, however, because very soon they hear a knock announcing the arrival of the custard and its bearer. Squeezing his hand, she lets go for the brief moment required to answer the door, but a second squeeze signals that she is back; and here to stay.

On the proviso that he will eat.

‘May I?’ Patsy purrs, miming that it seems sensible to test the temperature before they begin. Charles nods again, hungry now, so she dips the knuckle of her little finger into the yellowish liquid and licks it off in as ladylike a manner as possible. ‘Perfect,’ she says, using the reassurance to reassure _herself_ almost more than him, because the taste has taken her right back to boarding school.

Goodness, the teenage memories are prevalent today. But she supposes that makes sense. If anything makes sense at all. If anything – any of _this_ – ever has.

She refocuses on the room and finds him watching her. Like father, like daughter, they muse in private unison, as she starts to spoon the custard into his mouth. It slips down easily so, although they still take breaks to recover from swallows, he finishes fairly fast. Their mutual pride is palpable when the bowl she now moves to place on the tray is one which has been scraped clean.

‘I think you ought to choose the next novel, Papa,’ she offers once she is back beside his bed.

He does not respond immediately, but ruminates, and when he speaks it is not to give a title. ‘How long have you been here, Patsy?’

She is confused but answers anyway. ‘Just shy of three months. Since mid-April.’

‘Oh.’

‘Does it feel longer?’

He nods and then shakes his head. Yes and no. ‘I thought it was four,’ he says, simply.

She smiles in empathic comprehension. ‘Time is strange like that. Things feel as if they happened yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once.’ What she does not add is that their shared history was indeed a lifetime ago. Two, in fact. And almost three.

But he hears that in her silence. How could he not?

And the hearing of it brings him to a decision. ‘Let’s read _A Little Princess_?’

Patsy is perturbed, as Charles knew she would be, because the memories of his part in her schooling are just as strong for him this afternoon. This is why he chose it, though, and she is well aware. So she simply finds the book, shucks off her slippers, and climbs into bed beside him. Then, with a tentative smile and a steadying breath, she starts:

‘ _Once on a dark winter's day, when the yellow fog hung so thick and heavy in the streets of London that the lamps were lighted and the shop windows blazed with gas as they do at night, an odd-looking little girl sat in a cab with her father and was driven rather slowly through the big thoroughfares._

_She sat with her feet tucked under her, and leaned against her father, who held her in his arm, as she stared out of the window at the passing people with a queer old-fashioned thoughtfulness in her big eyes._

_She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her small face. It would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven. The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they belonged to. She felt as if she had lived a long, long time._ ’

As she reaches the end of the third paragraph, her voice wavers over its final (and oh so very significant) sentence, and he nudges her left hand gently to signal that she should stop. When she does, he raises his own wavering voice to say three phrases which might as well have been paragraphs for the effort they require, and the exhaustion he will feel afterwards. ‘I’m sorry, Patsy. I’m so sorry I sent you away. And I’m so very glad you are here with me.’


	3. Late July 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy arrives early for their father-daughter time, and they share some more feelings about family and faith.

Patsy enters the bedroom a little earlier than usual today. She is filled with a kind of contentment to which she is decidedly unused, and had definitely not expected to find here, within the walls of her father’s simultaneously foreign and eerily familiar house.

As the third month of her visit has crossed into the fourth, they have fallen into a comfortable rhythm. The custard was so successful that it has become Charles’ most regular request, and at this point they are just pleased he can cope with any kind of caloric intake by mouth. That is what bigger bowls are for – and they all know even this kind of eating will not last very long. So, for now, they savour it. Then she reads until he falls asleep. This seems to be happening quicker with each afternoon, which has made their progress rather slow. Yet neither of them mind, really; because it is not so much the reading as the companionship they crave. That and the occasional chat before talking, too, gets tiring.

Or too difficult to manage for more emotional reasons, just like the book they are both employing as a proxy for proper conversation. Not the one they thought they would – since, despite its resonance for them as individuals, only a few chapters of that chimed especially with the shared events of their lives – but another by the same author they had both (conveniently) apparently forgotten until it was proposed to follow the first of their forays into long ago lands of children’s literature. 

It is hard, but they are happy.

 _She_ is happy.

Hence the slightly earlier visit, and the curious lightness in her step.

‘Good morning, Papa, Agatha,’ she says with a smile as they both turn to greet her in the way that each of them best can.

Charles mirrors her grin, shifting his gaze just enough to see the clock on the wall, which tells him it is half past eleven. ‘Early.’

Patsy nods. ‘I’ve noticed you’ve fallen asleep at about two these last few days, so I thought we might offset that by doing things earlier. If you’d like to, that is.’

He nods too, his whole face seeming to light up at the idea, before remembering that it is not completely his choice. So he looks to Agatha, checking in, and she smiles encouragingly. ‘Whatever suits you both, Mr Mount. Miss Mount is eminently capable of keeping tabs on you, and more than welcome to call me at any time if you need my assistance.’

The referenced redhead flushes, shifting uncomfortably on her feet, rather overwhelmed by the combination of praise and deference. ‘Patsy, please,’ she mumbles just loudly enough to be heard.

Charles would be raising an eyebrow, were it not too much effort – such informality is unheard of from his adult daughter, although he remembers it well in her younger self. He says nothing of this, however, deciding merely to thank his nurse for being so amenable to adjustment. ‘Appreciated, Agatha.’

‘Of course,’ she responds, hiding her amusement at this familial awkwardness. ‘Shall I ask for the custard to be sent up now?’

Father and daughter share a look, stifling giggles, and agree as she leaves.

Some ten minutes later, it arrives, and Patsy puts the tray on the side. Charles watches whilst she potters about, methodical in her preparations, and marvels for what must be at least the millionth time in these last four months that she has grown to be so much like her mother.

How wonderful, he thinks, that the world was not left entirely without something of Lizzy. And dear Grace, too.

His daughter observes the faraway gaze in the blue eyes staring from the bed, and is reluctant to bring him back, because he seems happy on this particular visit to the past. Custard can congeal quickly, however, so she knows their window of opportunity in the present is small one – and food must be prioritised above all else. ‘Ready, Papa?’ she asks gently.

He nods promptly, informing her that he was not as deep in nostalgia as she may have supposed. ‘No aeroplanes, though,’ he drawls.

Patsy chuckles, surprised yet relieved that he has remembered their short conversation about their differing experiences in the immediate aftermath of their arrival back in Singapore. It means his mind is still sharp. ‘No aeroplanes,’ she replies, reaching to tuck his napkin loosely into his collar.

They fall into a companionable silence as he eats: he because his mouth is full and she from a desire to remove distraction. They cannot be too careful, and there is the whole afternoon to while away with words, of both the written and spoken variety.  Once he has finished, she clears up, and they ponder (separately but together) how the rest of the day might proceed. Due to the relatively slow pace of their progress through the book, they will find themselves at chapter four. That feels significant, yet neither of them can fathom why; until, that is, they snuggle up and she flips through to their marked place.

Oh yes, they think, when their eyes rest on the chapter title. Lottie. Oh _no_. Lottie. Little Lottie, left without a mother, whose grief-stricken tantrums are consolable by no-one but Sara.

Will Patsy cope with reading this aloud? They are both unsure, and tempted to stop before they start, but the young nurse recalls the words of her eldest colleague, Sister Monica Joan – and is determined to try. So she steels herself, and begins, managing admirably even through the section describing the encounter between the two girls:

_‘Sara stood by the howling furious child for a few moments, and looked down at her without saying anything. Then she sat down flat on the floor beside her and waited. Except for Lottie's angry screams, the room was quite quiet. This was a new state of affairs for little Miss Legh, who was accustomed, when she screamed, to hear other people protest and implore and command and coax by turns. To lie and kick and shriek, and find the only person near you not seeming to mind in the least, attracted her attention. She opened her tight-shut streaming eyes to see who this person was. And it was only another little girl. But it was the one who owned Emily and all the nice things. And she was looking at her steadily and as if she was merely thinking. Having paused for a few seconds to find this out, Lottie thought she must begin again, but the quiet of the room and of Sara's odd, interested face made her first howl rather half-hearted._

_“I—haven't—any—ma—ma—ma-a!” she announced; but her voice was not so strong._

_Sara looked at her still more steadily, but with a sort of understanding in her eyes._

_“Neither have I,” she said._

_This was so unexpected that it was astounding. Lottie actually dropped her legs, gave a wriggle, and lay and stared. A new idea will stop a crying child when nothing else will. Also it was true that while Lottie disliked Miss Minchin, who was cross, and Miss Amelia, who was foolishly indulgent, she rather liked Sara, little as she knew her. She did not want to give up her grievance, but her thoughts were distracted from it, so she wriggled again, and, after a sulky sob, said, “Where is she?”_

_Sara paused a moment. Because she had been told that her mamma was in heaven, she had thought a great deal about the matter, and her thoughts had not been quite like those of other people._

_“She went to heaven,” she said. “But I am sure she comes out sometimes to see me—though I don't see her. So does yours. Perhaps they can both see us now. Perhaps they are both in this room.”’_

Having made it so far, such an innocent exchange of dialogue proves too much for Patsy and she pauses. ‘I think that might be it on the reading front today, Papa,’ she adds eventually.

Charles nods. ‘Understood,’ he says, for once somewhat thankful that the gruffness of his voice can be ascribed to physical weakness, to cover for its real emotional cause in this moment.

They sit in silence for some time, taking mutual comfort from their clasped hands. Then, tentatively, the daughter asks her father a question she has been waiting nigh on two decades to broach. ‘Do you believe all that?’

He shakes his head. No. ‘Never have since.’ Despite sending you to such a religious school, he thinks wryly, before offering an attempt at an actual explanation. He is glad he saved his strength today for this. ‘She’s here, though. They both are. I see them in you so clearly. Shall we talk of them a little before I lie down?’

Patsy’s only answer is to envelop him in a gentle hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kind reception of this, and your understanding about the absence of my other two stories. It means a lot <3
> 
> The 'aeroplanes' comment is a reference to people being patronising when feeding someone older than a toddler. It features in _Hopes and Fears_ too.


	4. Early August 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy can't sleep and nor can her Papa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad this short digression seems to be acceptable. Thank you for continuing to read; it is appreciated <3

_Dearest Deels…_

Patsy sits in pyjamas at the desk in her room, beginning a lonely, late night scribble, whilst trying to convince her muscles and her mind that the best remedy for this sudden bout of homesickness would in fact be sleep. She can barely string a written sentence together when at her widest awake, anyway, so now is about as far from a good time as it can possibly get. Yet over this last week or so, since her father suggested they start talking about their absent family, she has missed her absent _partner_ more than at any other moment after she arrived.

Probably because she cannot talk about “Deels” as easily as Charles does about “Lizzy”.

Probably also because, now she is spending so much of the days with him, she notices the steadily increasing speed of his decline – and she only has the nights in which to process that change in the tempo of his biological rhythm.

Trust you to mix music into metaphors, she thinks tiredly, laughing aloud (albeit quietly) at the likelihood that this would further cement her father’s feelings that she is almost the mirror image of her mother.

The slight shake of her body caused by chuckling makes the ink blot on what was a pristine page, save for the opening; so her next exclamation is one of annoyance. It is too late for this lark, and she cannot risk a lie-in. She really ought to get to bed. Not that she has been sleeping through, by any stretch of her overactive imagination, but being supine is at least a little more restful than sitting upright.

As she resolves to wrench herself from writing, though, the hush of the house is broken by the shrill staccato of the telephone ringing. So she reaches across the desk, and answers it, perversely glad to be prevented from any extra introspection. ‘Hello,’ she whispers despite the closed door, ‘is everything all right, Agatha?’

The presumption is permissible, because no-one else would call at this hour, but the nurse still smiles as she speaks. ‘I’m terribly sorry to wake you, Miss Mount –’ she starts, almost anticipating the interruption, although its source is not the one she supposes.

Patsy grins, too, rushing to reassurance. ‘Oh no, it’s quite fine, I had yet to go to bed.’

The older woman lets out an audible sigh of relief. ‘Ah. In that case, we were just doing the handover for tonight, and Mr Mount slipped into a disturbing dream. This is fairly usual on its own, so we woke him as we normally would, but he is struggling to settle again. He keeps calling out for you.’

His daughter has neither need nor desire to delay his comfort any longer. ‘I’ll be right there,’ she says, somewhat curtly – but this is through concern and utterly unintentional.

‘Thank you,’ Agatha replies, entirely content to hear nothing but the click of the receiver being replaced, whilst Patsy stands to sprint the short distance along the corridor between their rooms.

When she arrives, introductions are made with Martha, the night nurse, as quietly and kindly as possible given the circumstances. They have yet to meet, a social slip of which Patsy finds she is mightily ashamed, but such feelings are futile at this point. Not to mention at this time of night, with her distressed parent in the bed barely two feet from where they are talking. (How strange it is to be on the other side of these sorts of conversations again. That was one blessing of the Busbys’ presence after Delia’s accident, she decides. For all that _not_ being next of kin denied her, it did allow a rare reprieve from bearing the brunt of bad news about yet another extremely important person.) No such respite is to be offered here, though, so she merely motions to the two women that she will manage just fine.

They are sceptical – she can see it, even in the eyes of Agatha who, just last week, had pronounced her “eminently capable” – but she is determined to be left in peace with her “Papa”. She is only too aware, after all, how nasty nightmares can be and the recovery is almost worse than the initial experience.

In that moment, she wants nothing more than to scream aloud in frustration; much like little Lottie in the chapter which had so floored her a few days ago and led them to leave off reading the novel for now.  Also like Mary Lennox, who had directed all her anger at another, fictional, Martha, she muses with the slightest raise of an eyebrow at the irony.

But her father beats her to such an unfettered expression of emotion. ‘ _Patsy!_ ’ he calls, the passivity of his body emphasising the active urgency of his anxiety, and she directs a deliberate stare towards the door.

Although she does not speak, every fibre of her being communicates her message (and, were it to be verbalised, its tone would be far closer to curt than kind). The nurses have enough nous to translate this, thankfully, so scuttle out – one to sleep and the other to make tea and pass the time until she is called back.

And then, at last, they are alone.

Having waited a lot longer than she wished to (albeit admittedly probably a mere minute) Patsy now wastes no more time. ‘I’m here, Papa,’ she soothes softly, ensuring she stands in the right area for eye contact as he lies on his right side. She will turn him at some point, to prevent pressure sores, but currently he seems comfortable. This thought causes her to chuckle – she is hiding behind practicalities again, more nurse than daughter – but this is understandable. Whilst Martha (Martha!) probably expects to be brought back in tonight, Patsy has other plans, and they require a synthesis of her two selves. So she starts by asking a simple question. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

‘Yes please,’ Charles chokes out, his chest heaving with the effort.

His daughter is unexpectedly amused by the politeness. ‘No ceremony here, Papa. Shall I sit –’

This second query is cut off. ‘No!’

He looks horrified and Patsy cannot help but laugh aloud, now, if gently. ‘All right.’ She knows what he needs, because she needs it too, though it was imperative to ask without assuming. So, once he is smiling again, she slips around the other side of the bed and climbs in to take up position as the big spoon.

 Just as she had done for Deels when they were reunited last June after her accident.

Just as _Charles_ had done for _her_ , when she got too scared to sleep, on the nights following their landing from the lifeboat.

Not that she is going to think about that tonight. No. Tonight is for stroking her father’s feathery hair, seeking to calm him as she would a flighty, frightened bird. As, indeed, Mary had the robin. As Sara had the monkey which suddenly scampered over the rooftops and through her attic window. Tonight is for tender touches of a kind both Charles and Patsy equate with an era more suited to those stories. One when the roles were very definitely reversed. Before everything in their world had turned topsy-turvy. Well, not quite before; because, as they lie here now, they are both thinking of their hugs in the humidity of Banka back then.

Despite his exhaustion, and the dryness of his throat, Charles is determined to apologise and explain. ‘I’m sorry, Patsy, your mother –’

It is her turn to cut him off, which she does by tracing her hand downwards from his head to his back, with a slow, sweeping gesture of gentle goodwill. ‘It’s all right, Papa,’ she promises. ‘We can talk about it tomorrow.’

‘But –’ He breaks off himself now, overcome by sadness, and sobs.

Patsy is up and out of bed in a flash, fumbling her way through the darkness until she finds his bedside lamp and they are face to face once more. Her motives are simultaneously personal and professional: to comfort him, of course, but equally to ensure the tears do not linger very long. Breathing is difficult enough without having crying to contend with too. Especially lying on his side. So, squeezing his hand, she wipes the wetness staining his cheek away with a tissue – and then helps him to clear the congestion with a sip of water through a straw. Or rather, several sips, since it seems he is thirsty. As he drinks, she offers silent praise to the manufacturers for marketing them first as a medical aid, because without them (and particularly the bendy properties) they would have to struggle to sit him up. This is a task for which neither of them has the strength or inclination right now. Their energies are better saved for essential manoeuvres only.

Sounds of sucking on empty air suggest that the bottom of the glass has been reached, and his daughter-nurse checks in. ‘All done, Papa?’

He coughs a little, clearing the last phlegm from his throat, and she sees the smile which precedes his speech. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

She returns his grin, asking a second question. ‘Do you think you can get back to sleep now? I’ll stay and cuddle you,’ she adds, peeking out briefly from behind practicality.

He is crestfallen. ‘I don’t think so.’

She is concerned, not from her own tiredness, but because he no longer even tries to move his head to shake or nod. She remains outwardly positive, however, not wishing him to notice that _she_ has noticed just yet. ‘That’s fine,’ she says, subtly but deliberately widening her smile. ‘How’s about I prop you up on some pillows and we read for a while?’

‘Not that bloody book,’ he interjects sardonically, before his gaze turns sheepish as he realises his words were choicer than they should be in earshot of his child.

‘My sentiments exactly,’ comes the dry return. ‘I was thinking we might try some poetry instead. Do you have any here, since I’d rather not leave you to rummage in the library?’

‘Shakespeare’s _Sonnets_ ,’ Charles replies immediately, causing Patsy to choke back the guilty giggle which leaps to her lips as she thinks of her own attempts at writing verse to Delia, and somehow this strange night suddenly makes a sort of sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Straws - I'm extremely environmentally conscious, but plastic straws are literal lifelines for some people, myself included. They definitely aren't something we use lightly. I have found some alternatives made from biodegradable plastic, but these are expensive and therefore not an option for all disabled people depending on them. If you want more information on why they're important, watch this helpful video made by the awesome Deaf, disabled and queer youtuber JessicaOutoftheCloset: https://youtu.be/4IBH0pcKzlY
> 
> Sonnets - in my HC, P&D write sonnets back-and-forth during this time, inspired by Nurse Crane lending the collection of Lorca poems.


	5. Mid-August 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy and Charles get to an especially significant sonnet, which leads them to reminisce about romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluff with feelings, posted with gratitude for everyone reading and commenting and being generally lovely <3

The days after their night together having blurred into an almost continuous loop, Patsy finds herself once again sitting next to her father in his bed, which seems to grow bigger each time she gets into it. She knows, of course, that this is physically impossible – but it is an easier idea to integrate than the reality, which is that the body beside her is getting smaller. Shrinking, to put it scientifically, through a combination of reduced intake and atrophy. This has not happened without warning, far from it, but that is somehow worse; since it reminds her of how things were with her mother and sister.

Illness chipping away at their essence until they disappeared altogether.

But Charles is thinking the same thing, and such silent symbiosis is significant comfort to his once more devoted daughter. Sister Monica Joan was correct in her counsel: she is easing him on his way, and she would not wish to do it any differently.

Not when they are taking so much mutual solace in sonnets.

Although their progress remains slow, the relative brevity of the verses has allowed them to proceed at a faster pace than through either of the books before this. So they are already into the hundreds (one hundred and fifteen, in fact) and she is about to start reading when he coughs to stop her.

‘No,’ he says quietly, ‘next one.’

She is surprised, having thought him happy, like her, to continue making their way through chronologically. They both thrive on order, and every shelf in this house (whether holding books or records) is organised as efficiently as they were during her childhood. A sudden skip seems out of character, therefore; until she looks up to see his soft, nostalgic smile and realises there was actually only _one_ sonnet he wanted her to recite.

_This_ one. CXVI. One hundred and sixteen.

So she says nothing, simply smiling herself, and obliges:

‘ _Let me not to the marriage of true minds_  
 _Admit impediments. Love is not love_  
 _Which alters when it alteration finds,_  
 _Or bends with the remover to remove:_  
 _O no! it is an ever-fixed mark_  
 _That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_  
 _It is the star to every wandering bark,_  
 _Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken._  
 _Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_  
 _Within his bending sickle’s compass come:_  
 _Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_  
 _But bears it out even to the edge of doom._  
 _If this be error and upon me proved,_  
 _I never writ, nor no man ever loved._ ’

Once she closes on the concluding couplet, she wants to ask why, but she has been brought up better than to be presumptuous in seeking answers before they are offered. No, it is not that, and to pretend she always lives up to the patience her name prescribes would be nothing less than a lie. It is _rather_ that, in the years since they were last together, she has learnt the value of a compassionate, quiet, listening ear – even if, in the case of Delia, it was merely a method to get her to open up. Not that she begrudges her beloved brunette this technique in the least. It is far easier to talk when one can hear oneself think. And it taught her a lot about how best to interact with even the most belligerent of patients.

Patience is indeed a virtue.

Ironically.

Her internal rambles are interrupted by the stuttering beginnings of his speech. ‘Wedding reading.’

Patsy’s breath catches in her own throat as comprehension dawns at last. ‘You and Mama had this read at your wedding?’ she asks, it having now become habitual to extend his short phrases into the fuller sentences she knows he wishes them to be.

‘Yes.’ He grins, and she is giddy.

‘How romantic!’ she breathes, beaming, and thinking of the handkerchief hidden away in the box beneath her bed back home. One of her homes, anyway, because she is starting to entertain the idea of feeling at home here, too. Almost. But not quite.

‘How _cliché_!’ Charles counters drily, bringing her back to the reality of their reunion with a bump so brutal she is nearly convinced it is audible.

She bristles, wanting to maintain the magic for at least a moment longer. ‘It wasn’t, though, was it, because you were using someone else’s words to say the things you couldn’t.’

He blinks, momentarily taken aback, and realises she is right. Moreover, he muses, _she and he_ have been doing exactly the same thing _now_ – and she has been just as complicit in the alternative method of communication.

Clever, crafty girl. No, young woman; since she is already almost a decade older than Lizzy was when they married. And only a little younger than she was when… No. Not that today.

Patsy is scared by his silence, worried she has spoken out of turn. ‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ she whispers, stumbling, ‘that was insensitive.’

‘No,’ he answers as immediately as he is able, ‘you’re right. I kept it – in the camps – in my mind –’ He is struggling, but sternly disregards her attempts to stop him speaking, avoiding her gaze. ‘Songs too. Afterwards I wanted to recite it but –’

He breaks off at last, out of breath and bravery, and she squeezes his hand, electing not to verbalise the end of this particular phrase: there was no afterwards.

Instead, she tells him a truth of which she is certain, because it is the one remaining pillar among the ruins of her childhood. ‘She loved you.’ Then, made bold by his own efforts to share so much today, she adds a detail she has hitherto been too hesitant to divulge. ‘And she knew you loved her. Even at the end. I made sure of it, as best I could, and I should’ve told you that then but I was too angry and sad.’

He summons all his physical strength to try and flex his fingers comfortingly against her palm. She feels the flicker of his intention, and smiles in surprise, so he seizes the chance to speak. ‘You were – a child. _My_ child. _Our_ child.’

‘Still,’ she insists, her adult self ignoring all the younger incarnations in her which are clamouring increasingly loudly for attention, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say it then. And I’m sorry she’s not here to say it now.’

Charles tuts, wishing he could shuck her under the chin in gentle chastisement for this mood, as he would when she was a toddler. ‘But _you’re_ here,’ he says sincerely, the three words doing the work of another magical triplet neither father nor daughter can quite conjure up just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose Sonnet 116 for reasons very much connected to my other writing, especially _Forget-Me-Not_. Hopefully the links between the stories feel natural.


	6. Late August 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy and Charles share some early morning cuddles, before she returns his bravery in talking about the sonnet by choosing another novel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind words about this shorter story, and for continuing to read it, as well as my other offerings. You really are lovely humans <3

Patsy wakes as a shaft of early morning light drifts over her face through the nearby curtain, and gradually drags her eyes open. At first she is disorientated – the bed is in the wrong place! – and it takes all her willpower to keep her response to a quiet gasp rather than the frightened yelp which is her initial instinct. As she becomes more accustomed to her surroundings, however, she realises the cause of her confusion. She is still in Charles’ room, having slept beside him to calm his own terrified reaction to yet another nightmare. Several, in fact. She does not want to think too much about any of them; especially not this early, when her mind is still muddled from fitful sleep. One shared attribute is determinedly resurfacing, however, and it concerns her a great deal. On the night she was first summoned to his side, it was because he called out for her when he was awake, but now (as of last night) her name leaps to his lips even in the depths of slumber. More significantly, his tone suggests helplessness rather than a call for aid, and that combination would mean she is the _subject_ of these dreadful dreams.

Why, she cannot comprehend, because they were not together in the camps; well, except at the beginning, before segregation.

Had she told him about anything that happened during that time apart?

She had supposed she was too sullen and sad, as she had said some weeks ago when they spoke about her mother’s obvious affection for him. And yet, she thinks with a yawn, those early days before she went off to school were so blurred by bereavement that she has almost no memory of the details of what they might have discussed.

She will listen more closely tonight, she decides, shaking off the last of the daze lingering from sleep as she feels him shift next to her.

‘Patsy?’ he asks, obviously only just awake.

‘Yes, Papa, I’m still here,’ she says, and he hears the smile in her voice prior to opening his eyes properly to see it.

‘Good morning,’ he replies when their gazes meet, his propriety so much a reflex that it is unaltered even by the slur of his speech.

His daughter chuckles, too delighted to counsel him against expending extra energy, and answers in kind. ‘Good morning to you, too.’ Then she gently guides them both, by bringing out her inner nurse, to broach a necessary yet not particularly palatable topic. At least not ideal for discussion between a father and his child. ‘Do you need a change?’

‘I do,’ he mumbles, embarrassed, and her understanding nod is coupled with a soft squeeze of the hand he has not noticed she is holding.

‘That’s fine,’ she whispers, wanting to ease his awkwardness by framing this as their secret. ‘I know you don’t like me helping, but Agatha will be in soon, so I’ll go and dress whilst you get sorted. I could even collect a new novel from the library for us.’

Charles’ eyes sparkle at this suggestion. ‘Surprise me,’ he says, surprising _her_ with the level of trust he is willing to invest in this decision, and she snuggles in close for a final hug before the day really begins.

Later, when they are both dressed, she returns to his room. The book she has chosen is clutched a little too tightly to her chest, because she worries he will not approve.

Not because it is scandalous – far from it, she is nowhere near brave enough – but because it might be too full of memories. She is proceeding on the principle that the sonnets were successful, though, and is optimistic that this might be similarly so. Her “Mama” has been referred to as “dearest, loveliest Elizabeth” so many times now during her chats with him that Patsy is convinced it was not just Shakespeare they shared.

Hopefully “Papa” will be persuaded.

Charles picks up on her apprehension as soon as Agatha answers the door. ‘All right?’ he asks, ignoring the nurse’s subtly disapproving stare at the fact he is already attempting to speak.

Patsy nods, nervous but eager, and shoots him a lopsided smile. ‘I brought _Pride and Prejudice_ – will that be suitable fare for after breakfast?’

He grins so widely that, for the briefest of moments, she feels they are back in Singapore and she is watching him watch her mother across the table, like on the rare weekends when she and Grace were invited to join them for brunch. That smile is one she has only ever seen him bestow on his wife, and she had not thought she would witness it again.

But here it is, beaming from his bed into her heart, and she is helpless to stop the giggle which rises from her throat at its appearance.

‘Good choice?’ she clarifies once she has regained composure.

‘Yes,’ he says softly, matching Agatha’s now smouldering gaze with his own look of stubborn independence, and causing her to reflect on how much he resembles his redheaded daughter in both character and countenance.

‘I suppose that’s my cue to leave,’ the nurse interjects, not in the least bothered by his mood. There are times when professionalism is outweighed by personal compassion, she thinks as she steps out.

Once they are alone, Charles too drops all façades, and Patsy wonders if she can coax him to eat with the promise of conversation between mouthfuls. ‘Austen was important to you, Papa?’ she queries kindly as he swallows a small amount of custard.

He laughs, and she could swear she sees him blush. ‘Your mother – she called me “Fitzwilliam” if I was being –’

Such a long sentence is too much for his mouth to manage alongside food, so she finishes it off, laughing with him to quell the clench in her heart at the thought of Delia’s similar strategies. ‘If you hid behind your “Mr Mount” persona for too long?’

The father hears the familiarity with such tactics in his daughter’s voice, and feels an ache inside as he considers the circumstances which would have led her to adopt them. He merely answers in the affirmative, however, and she is glad of the chance for deflection she is offered by his second laugh.

‘Am _I_ to call you that, then?’ she purrs whilst feeding him a teaspoonful more of custard, watching as his eyes glint with kindly irritation.

No, they seem to say, and I ought to send you to your room for that impertinence.

Instead, when he swallows again, Charles simply requests that they move on to a different activity. ‘Enough,’ he pleads in reference to his breakfast, ‘I can’t. Could we read?’

Patsy agrees, the nurse in her concerned by a patient’s struggle but the child understanding her parent’s exhaustion. Slipping beneath the covers as quickly as possible after clearing up, she tries not to think about how the financial aspect of the “universally acknowledged” truth of Austen’s starting phrase could apply to her, too, sooner than she has prepared for – if, that is, she shifts the genders. But that sort of alteration is nothing new, she muses upon opening this old book.

And neither, really, is bereavement.

What _is_ new is allowing herself – themselves – to feel their present familial pleasure rather than pre-empting future pain. So, as she begins to speak the words she has always known well but been rather scornful about, she decides to dive into the world they evoke with something approximating abandon. Because, she ponders, it is possible she ought not only to find succour in sad stories. Joy might just be as powerful as grief, and neither one need negate the other.

Perhaps that is the proper universal truth.


	7. Early September 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The roles reverse a little, and Charles takes care of Patsy for a brief night when she is troubled by dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slightly more intense than the other chapters, hence waiting until after Christmas to post it, although I've kept it as light and supportive as I could. With thanks especially to Catching Up for persuading me I shouldn't rip it to shreds.

Patsy knows.

No – that is wrong.

She remembers.

Yes – she not only knows, but remembers, and has spent a sufficient amount of sleepless hours lying beside her father in his bed over the last fortnight to have gleaned snippets sizeable enough to bring on her own disturbing dreams. And to make her grateful for reasons to remain awake. The tricky times are when he _does_ drift off, leaving her with nothing to do but stay as still as she can in hopes that the effort of holding her muscles taut will keep the seemingly ever-encroaching exhaustion at bay. When even that becomes too much, but she still cannot bear the thought of sleep, she extricates herself from beneath the bedclothes and begins, barefoot, to pace the floor. She supposes, as she steps softly over the hard wood, that she is emulating one of Elizabeth Bennet’s activities, and taking a turn about the room. The irritation with which she is doing so must be similar, too.

Yet it is not Caroline Bingley who accompanies her, but someone much less fictional, although she feels no less flimsy. It is her younger self, so thin and grey that she might merely be a figment fashioned from the shadows by which they are both surrounded. Simply a trick of these twilight hours – were it not for the strength of the memories which Patsy is sure have prompted this nocturnal visitation. The adult woman is certain, if she just keeps walking, her child-self will stay on the periphery; as befits such a flickering hologram as the one haunting her now. If she stops, she might fall asleep, and allow the terror to roam free in every area of her mind. She wants to sleep, of course she does, but it is too scary.

This feels so unfair.

She had thought the days were difficult enough, filled as they are with even faint reminders of the family members who never knew this house that almost aches for knowledge of _them_ , but now the nights are tough too.

Too tough.

Not like night shifts – that’s why the necessity of nursing the man she may once more call her “dear Papa” is in fact nothing but a relief – but like her night _mares_. No, not just like them, but _because_ of them. Because they have become so bad that she needs support _herself_ to confront them. But the person who provides that support is several thousand miles away. And she could hardly write a letter about any of this; not after sending nothing more substantial than a few paltry poems of only fourteen lines each. A telephone call is out of the question, as well, even putting the time difference aside. She would not know where to start, but she is aware that once she does she may not have the means to stop, either. Whether speaking or writing. And Delia deserves better than page upon page, or minute upon minute, of her pouring her heart out. She should sleep, but she is scared, so there is nothing to do but walk. And now she is going around in circles. Literally.

‘Patsy?’

The relentless rhythm of her ruminations is brought to an abrupt halt when she registers Charles’ speech and rushes to his aid. ‘Yes, Papa?’ she asks softly, feeling both glad and guilty that his tone suggests he was calling out for her and so is awake instead of immersed in imagination.

‘Stop pacing,’ he replies with the smallest of smiles, ‘it won’t help.’

She blushes, grateful for the cover of darkness, and unwittingly matches his slur by stammering a second, sheepish, question. ‘D-did I wake you?’

‘No,’ he reassures as she at last reaches to switch on his bedside lamp, and they spend a quiet moment in solidarity before he attempts to speak again. ‘In the drawer,’ he directs, knowing she will jump at the apparent chance to deflect. She glances down, obviously wary to enter such a seemingly sacred space, but proceeds to prise open the referenced compartment, finding two fairly slim volumes under her fumbling fingers. Holding them in the light and realising they are poetry collections, she looks askance at him, unsure which question to pose first. Why these? Why now, other than because poetry has become their preference at night? How on earth has he managed to get them in here without her noticing, anyway?

Ah, Agatha. Of course.

Rather than utter anything rash she will regret, she examines the books more closely. The one on top is by Sylvia Plath, _The Colossus_ , and she already has it, although admittedly her copy remains almost as pristine as this one because, having bought it in November 1960, she could not bring herself to read it with Delia absent after the accident. She had hoped some new verses, unconnected to any memories, would offer a kind of comfort – but a flick through the contents pages had told her to let it lie. And so it had lain since then. So it lies _still_ , gathering dust in storage with the rest of the stuff she had hurriedly hidden away prior to her departure, aware her bed would be reallocated long before she returned.

No single sentence, nor even several, will say all that, however; so she looks up, willing words to her father’s lips in place of her own.

‘Poem in there _will_ help, eventually,’ he says, reassurance still ringing in his tone, and (in her sleep-deprived state) the speech sounds nearly as clear as the voice she recalls from her youth. ‘You’ll know the one. But not tonight,’ he adds, asserting his parental authority, continuing the charade of clarity her mind has created to filter this interaction.

Perhaps it is Past-Patsy prompting all this. Her adult-self knows he still slurs – and knows, too, that she ought to dissuade him from the overexertion of _any_ talking – but the child clinging to the edges of her consciousness (no, _clawing at_ them!) refuses to be so sensible. ‘What tonight, then?’ she hears a voice, undoubtedly her own, ask.

‘Other one.’

She finds she has forgotten she is holding two books. This weird liminal space-time made them light in her hands, and she was so provoked by the presence of the first that the second seemed insignificant. Now its importance emanates from the corners of its concealed cover, and she places the Plath down haphazardly in her eagerness to discover what else “Papa” is proposing. She sees the title, which she does not recognise, and the name, which she does:

_Spring and All_.

William Carlos Williams.

Another American, then.

Hang on, she thinks, he was the one who wrote about the wheelbarrow, was he not?

She grins, finally understanding her father’s motives, and meets his gaze again. The query must be burning in her eyes, because Charles chuckles, offering an answer as soon as he is able. ‘Number Twenty-two.’

Delighted, his daughter races to rejoin him in bed and prop him up on pillows, needing the proximity of their pyjama-clad bodies to bolster her reading of this poignant piece. Then she threads their fingers together whilst she flips to the relevant page. They share one more smile before she starts:

‘ _so much depends_

_upon_

_a red wheel_

_barrow_

_glazed with rain_

_water_

_beside the white_

_chickens_ ’

Patsy pauses after finishing the short recitation, wondering if these words will suffice, or if she has the energy to elaborate on everything evoked by their deceptive simplicity. She decides that, if she wants at least to pave the way to peaceful sleep, she deserves even the briefest of discussions. ‘I’ve known this poem a long time, Papa,’ she begins, bravely. ‘Mama taught me it. I was whining about something small – probably because I couldn’t tell her about everything big,’ she pauses again, checking for, and finding, the flicker of comprehension in Charles’ face. She has deciphered his dreams correctly, it seems, so she continues with her explanation. ‘She said it would help me make sense of our situation. And she was right. It did. It didn’t make me accept it. But I could focus on the “simpler” things and find even the tiniest glimmer of hope. Is that what you mean tonight?’

‘Yes,’ he replies with a watery grin. ‘But now – we both need sleep.’

She giggles, her girlhood self responding well to his instructions. ‘All right,’ she agrees, assisting him to lie down. ‘Austen again tomorrow?’

‘Of course, impudent girl,’ he promises, hiding behind a phrase reminiscent of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and smiling sadly into his sheets at her resilience. As they slip into slumber together, he squashes the regret resurfacing at the fact they are only talking properly now, by electing to be pleased they have managed to talk at all.

So much, indeed, depends on perspective.


	8. Mid-September 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking courage from Charles' kindness, at a natural point in their chats, Patsy decides to tell him something important about herself and her life.
> 
> Filled with family fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it's nearly new year, and this update was ready, I thought we all deserved some father-daughter fluff to contrast with the intensity of the last chapter. (I also feel extremely passionately that _Patsy_ deserved acceptance on this score, so there is no angst in this one, I promise.)

Patsy got her wish, and it has been “Austen again tomorrow” since that night, as a reward for them both making it through to the morning relatively peacefully. She and Charles share an awareness of the awful realisation she has reached, and the memories of it which are growing steadily more solid, but they _also_ share a stubborn refusal to address it aloud. At least directly. So, instead, they seek solace in a story about as far removed from those memories as it is possible to get – its circumstances more akin to those of her early childhood and his much younger days. True, they each chafe at certain aspects of that environment but, as that is often the exact object of the satire, they find reading of it a relief.

Especially in the sections set at Rosings Park, where Elizabeth is harangued by Lady Catherine on the particulars of her upbringing.

They have reached this point this afternoon, being at chapter twenty-nine, and Patsy struggles to keep countenance as she reads:

‘ _Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her mother’s maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,_

_“Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?”_

_“A little.”_

_“Oh! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”_

_“One of them does.”_

_“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do you draw?”_

_“No, not at all.”_

_“What, none of you?”_

_“Not one.”_ ’

As in so many moments of their reading together, the daughter finds herself pausing and offering an explanation to her father, although today’s break arises from amusement as opposed to anguish. ‘Sorry, Papa,’ she says through giggles, ‘it’s just she sounds like some of the snootiest girls in my year.’

Charles lets her laugh, enjoying the release by proxy, before tentatively asking a question he is unsure she will answer. ‘Do you still play?’

His child chokes back her chuckle, surprised by the direct enquiry, but nonetheless is brave enough to respond. ‘Not since I was closer in age to Miss Bennet…’ She trails off, at a loss, even with the cover of humour.

Charles grunts in comprehension. ‘Nearly bought one for here,’ he adds, slowly and quietly, almost to himself.

Patsy smiles sadly. ‘I would’ve played for you, Papa,’ she promises, and then rushes on in an effort to stem the regret he might feel at her reply. ‘I understand why you couldn’t, though. The same reason I’ve not touched one since leaving school.’

‘You were talented,’ he says, his voice sure, albeit still slurry and slow.

She protests, blushing. ‘Not like Mama – she played with such passion. The same amount of emotion she put into everything.’

He grins now. ‘Especially telling me off.’

They are both briefly silent; musing on the resemblance “Lizzy” Mount (née Spencer) bore to her namesake Bennet, and particularly of the fictional young woman’s imminent ire at Darcy’s utterly unexpected proposal. Charles had been much more cautious, courteous, and therefore successful – perhaps more like _his_ namesake, Bingley – but that was because he felt himself decidedly beneath _her_ station, instead of the other way around.

Otherwise they were _definitely_ Darcy and Lizzy – vocal in arguments and in adoration.

Prompted by her father’s reminder of their rows, Patsy breaks the silence and broaches one specific example, seeking confirmation of the reality of the memory. It is so vivid she fears she may have made it up or, at the very least, embellished it. ‘Did she read you the riot act on the walk to the harbour after we packed up the house?’ she asks awkwardly, using adult language to hide the childhood (childish?) impetus of the query.

Charles barks out a single laugh as he answers. ‘Yes. Impressive even for her.’

His daughter nods, relieved that he remembers. ‘I can picture it so clearly; she was the angriest I’d ever seen.’

‘Rightly,’ comes the reply, so vehement in tone (if not volume) that she is sufficiently shocked to look straight at him. There is a strange comfort in the knowledge that he feels guilty, too, but not enough to stop her from refuting it.

‘No, Papa,’ she says softly but firmly, ‘you weren’t to know. You did your best. And Mama wouldn’t have liked the alternative either, because us taking one of the earliest evacuation ships would’ve meant leaving you behind, and she was only ever truly happy when you were together…’ She finds herself trailing off again, overwhelmed by how similar this situation seems to her own, despite the two intervening decades.

Charles coughs, choked by emotion he may conveniently pass off as congestion, and matches the earnestness of her entreaty. ‘I was the same.’ He pauses, pondering, but keeping his gaze steady. Then, with a decisive murmur, he says something he no longer wishes to withhold. ‘I hope you may be happy.’

The sincerity of his simple statement surprises her – he can see it in the slight reflexive widening of her eyes, even if she halts any audible reaction – but this is the best way. He has wanted to mention it for months, since he saw the sheets of notepaper slipped surreptitiously between the pages of the books she read alone as she sat beside his bed. Just after she arrived; before they began their linguistic gymnastics with literature. And then when the surreptitious pages stopped appearing at all. But there has not seemed an appropriate moment. At least until now, when the topic has naturally evolved from their talking, and he wants to get the words out whilst he still has the strength and sentence structure.

It is Patsy’s turn to pause and ponder, hoping to hell he does not notice her paling cheeks, and to pull some semblance of an answer out of the air rendered steadily thinner by her panic. _She_ sees only kindly interest in his eyes, however, and is emboldened by his openness already this afternoon. So she allows herself an attempt at honesty, as well, and speaks a short, soft, yet significant phrase. ‘I am.’

‘Oh?’

The kindness in his gaze only grows, increasing her courage with it, and she goes further. ‘I might not have a Darcy, but I have a Delia,’ she offers, protecting herself through the armour of alliteration alongside her usual haven of humour.

Concern flickers briefly across Charles’ face and she flinches, preparing to cower, but there is pure compassion in his enquiry. ‘Even with…?’ he asks; the absence of an ending deliberate on this occasion, and as articulate as any euphemism.

She still finishes the sentence, though, because she needs time to absorb his apparently unquestioning acceptance. ‘Even with everything?’ She nods and then verbally agrees. ‘Yes. She helped me save myself from a lifetime of rigidly enforced solitude because I thought it was easier not to get close to people.’ She hears him hum in recognition, and she smiles, tentatively twining their fingers together across the open book which still lies in her lap.

An apt analogy, if ever there was one, they think in unspoken unison.

‘You don’t mind?’ Eventually, Patsy’s insecurity interrupts the interval of their conversation. She needs to know for certain.

‘ _Mind_?’ Charles hopes the effort he puts into the incredulous emphasis of this repetition will be illustrative on its own, but poses a second query to be sure she comprehends. ‘You feel safe?’

‘Absolutely,’ she says, adding as an afterthought, ‘and she’ll help me cope when I get back.’

‘Wonderful.’ His tone is warm and welcoming, filled with genuine pleasure.

His daughter, in turn, is flooded with hope and gratitude. ‘Yes,’ she concurs, ‘Deels is indeed a wonder. I don’t know what I’d do without her –’ This verbal revelation scares her, and she stutters, but is unable to restrain herself from completing the thought. ‘She developed temporary amnesia from traumatic brain injury after a bicycle accident and I nearly lost her too.’

Her father is pleased to provide a parental prompt to buffer this (admittedly understandable) anxiety. ‘But you didn’t.’

Patsy sucks in a breath at Charles’ choice of words, but simply says, ‘No.’ Then, with a timid glance directly into his still-steady gaze, she signals that she has said enough for today by referring them both back to the book. ‘Shall we finish the chapter?’ she asks, a fitting end to a chat which feels so much more like a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for your kind reception of this story. It means such a lot.


	9. Late September 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since Patsy's brave decision to mention Delia, she and Charles have left the books behind, and he has an important offer to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad the previous chapter seemed realistic and felt fluffy enough after the one before that. Thank you to everyone for being so lovely about this story; your comments mean a lot, especially because I know my imagination is idiosyncratic <3

‘And then Trixie thought I was trying to steal her beau, when actually I was simply doing Tom the favour of a few lessons so he would be confident enough to ask her out dancing himself.’ Patsy pauses mid-anecdote, observing the sparkle in Charles’ eyes despite the pallor of his skin, and muses on how much has changed between them since she shared that significant, and scary, snippet of herself.

On how much weight and power a single word ( _a name or pronoun_ ) could carry.

On how much lighter she has felt since she said it.

So much so, indeed, that she has – they have – felt safe enough to leave off the literary cover altogether and _tell_ stories of their own rather than reading those written by others. Or at least she has. Charles cannot contribute much more to the conversations now than murmurs of understanding, because even he accepts that it is imperative to save his speech for important instructions or expressions of discomfort, but he does not care. It is enough of a delight to watch his daughter bloom a little back into the precocious child he remembers best, her grin and eyes equally wide with the joy of whatever rambling narrative she is currently recounting, that he almost forgets his ailments.

This past fortnight, he thinks, has positively flown by – and all because she was brave enough to tell him about her beloved “Nurse Busby”.

How proud he is of the young woman the girl he once called his “precious, patient Patience” has become. He certainly regrets having missed the intervening years between their incarnations – how could he not? – but he refuses to let that leach away his gratitude for getting to witness her growth now. He is filled with hope for her future happiness and feels nothing but relief that she will have a safe haven upon her return to London. Goodness (since, as he told her, he no longer believes in God) knows she deserves it. Goodness knows, too, she will need all the help she can get if she is to find her way through the fresh bout of grief he is soon to bestow on her shoulders, which are already stooped with so much sadness. Yet, he realises as he watches her recover the thread of an apparently escaped thought, this is mere metaphor: one would not guess anything of her woes from either the careful choreography of her posture or the pleasant, soothing streams of her conversation. Even lying down she exudes poise. How well, he ponders, she seems to bear it all, and herself; although of course this pretence could prove problematic if she uses it too much for the purpose of protection.

Before Charles can concern himself too far with Patsy’s future psychological prospects, however, he is pulled back to the present because she starts speaking again. ‘Deels, meanwhile, was highly amused by the whole affair,’ she continues with a chuckle, and he matches her grin when he hears the now-familiar nickname. ‘I’d’ve thought she could’ve had the decency to be at least _slightly_ jealous, wouldn’t you, Papa?’

‘Mmm,’ he offers in sympathetic encouragement, thinking of all the young oafs Lizzy used to dance with (when they were courting but not quite engaged) just to see his hackles rise. And how she had teased him when he walked her home. Because of course he had been just as young and oafish as the rest of them.

The recollection causes him to chuckle, which in turn provokes a cough, and Patsy stops her story in an instant to attend to his needs. ‘All right, Papa?’

‘Yes,’ Charles promises sincerely, although he is glad of the proffered ice-chip she stretches for from the bedside table to soothe his parched lips. He has managed to continue eating enough to consume sufficient calories thus far, despite the increasing difficulty, but they are all aware a feeding tube will soon be advisable. He is cross to have reached this crossroads so quickly; somehow things seem to have suddenly sped up.

Or perhaps he has – stubbornly – neglected to notice the really rather steady progress of his degeneration.

Yes, that is probably right.

His own carefully choreographed façade.

Like father, like daughter.

 _Dear_ daughter with whom he is only just becoming properly acquainted – at the point where they ought to prepare to part.

No, he reminds himself, he has decided not to dwell on that at all today. He is determined to focus on the delight of her being here instead of despairing that she was ever away. As she is, too, if her cheerful stories are as genuine as they appear to be.

But the story is not why she speaks now. ‘Would you like a massage, Papa?’ she asks, ‘Or maybe some stretches? Look at my hands to answer, remember; right for massage and left for stretches.’ This latter instruction is accompanied by the presentation of her palms. Thankfully they are in the right position to make it possible – facing each other instead of spooning.

He groans, frustrated, but is also grateful for her acknowledgement of his restlessness. So he looks to her left, his right, at which signal she smiles and slips out of bed.

Once she is standing by his side, her grin grows, as she is pleased they have found a mutually comfortable way to combine both her personas. ‘Duvet off, then?’ she queries, forever committed to consent.

‘Mmm,’ Charles mumbles, trying to stay positive for her sake.

Patsy hears the hard-done-by tone, even in this simple sound, and she squeezes his hand in solidarity prior to removing the covers to start stretching his legs. He likes this bit least, so has asked her and Agatha to begin with them, in order that he may end off with the less arduous arm exercises. ‘I’m just going to ease you onto your back, all right?’ she explains gently.

He offers her a wan smile, relieved as always that she is talking him through the process in an effort to preserve some of his autonomy, and she rolls him over as quickly and smoothly as possible. Then, with a confidence that causes him to celebrate her professional training (if secretly), she cycles through the necessary motions to coax his muscles out of contracture.

His limbs need all the lengthening they can take.

Gauging his limits by the depth of the grimaces on his face, she leaves his legs alone just in advance of the moment the stretches become too much, and moves upwards with several soothing caresses on her way. ‘Massage afterwards,’ she murmurs as she reaches his arms, conveying her pride covertly through a promise.

Charles coughs, and she interrupts the routine to prop him again on pillows, knowing that upper body stretches may actually be performed with more success in sitting. When he is upright, the grin he gives her is genuine, and she wonders briefly once more how much better he might have fared if she could have arrived early enough to persuade him of the possibilities afforded by a wheelchair. But, by all accounts, he had been adamant that the access into and within his house was insufficient to accommodate one – and that he therefore would have been stuck in his room regardless. So she decides not to raise the subject at this point, instead raising only his arm.

Her openness in conversation has left a few cracks in her professionalism, though, allowing him to witness something of these internal debates about his positioning. It takes very little mental effort to realise what she is ruminating on, and he is tickled by her tenacity of thought, despite knowing she would not dare broach it in speech again. It not only reminds him a great deal of himself at her age, but makes him recall he has his own reason to be tenacious now. ‘Patsy,’ he starts, quietly.

‘Yes, Papa?’ she replies immediately, her eyebrows shooting up at this voluntary effort of fuller vocalisation.

Charles smiles, relieved her response has not been to scold him for speaking, and tries again. ‘About Delia –’

 _Patsy_ smiles, too, and cuts him off. ‘I know,’ she says calmly (albeit with a chuckle), ‘I’m to take her to Harrods, for tea at The Georgian, and she deserves “the most deliciously decadent counterpane in the world for her bed” if she’s got past our family’s frostiness.’

He chuckles at her attempt to assist him, even though it is incorrect, and then coughs – but continues, after a pause, undeterred. ‘Yes, but more important: your mother’s ring.’

It is all his daughter can do not to drop his right arm from the strength of her shock. ‘Really!?’ she squeaks, eyes shining with suddenly-sprung tears, ‘You still have it?’

‘Mmm,’ he manages, oddly thankful he is prevented from audibly recalling the day Patsy herself had returned it to him. She needs no extra angst about their past. This gift will give her a goal for her future.

She blinks briefly before answering this time, and places his arm gently at his side. He is confused, as they have not finished, but understands a mere minute later when she bends to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘ _Terima kasih_ , Papa,’ she whispers, the Malay expression of thanks meaning more than any English could in this context – or so he thinks, because the three words she says next, louder, comprise a phrase he has waited almost twenty years for her to utter. ‘I love you.’

With another cough, he clears his throat. He knows she expects nothing, but that increases his desire to give her _something_ , so takes as deep a breath as possible in the circumstances and turns the tender triplet into a quatrain. ‘I love you, too.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this chapter features thoughts on different kinds of therapy and seating arrangements, I'm posting it in memory of my childhood Occupational Therapist, Jane, whose fourteenth anniversary is today.


	10. Early October 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy and Charles have a gentle conversation about a necessary, but difficult, change in his care routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this is slightly sadder than the last two, but still filled with fluff and love. It has been written in breaks from writing up my thesis chapter on Samuel Beckett, which might in part explain the tone - although the subject matter was always going to make it tougher. Posted with gratitude for sticking with this story and continuing to read and comment. It means an awful lot.
> 
> I'm now going to hibernate for a few more days in order to finish this part of my PhD, before coming back to catch up on everyone else's wonderful writing.

‘But Papa, wouldn’t it be sensible for you to have the procedure _before_ it’s absolutely necessary? The surgeon says you ought to think about making the most of the time whilst you’re still strong enough to be put under, as well.’ Patsy keeps her tone professional, any trace of the pleading daughter conspicuously absent outside of his nickname, against Agatha’s advice to “employ a little emotion”. The older nurse is well-meaning, and she rather appreciates the almost collegial camaraderie they have come to develop, but the truth is that the younger of the two women could not countenance this conversation without a mask of medical logic.

If it is possible to be logical about matters of life and death.

Charles is stonily silent, staring impassively ahead, and she wonders if she has overdone it, until he stutters a single word, ‘No.’ Then he flicks his gaze to the notebook on the bedside table nearest him. The one she has filled with lists of words; a simpler version of that which she made for Delia after her accident. She nods, and reaches for it across his body, faintly amused (in spite of her anxiety) by the parallels in her provision of care for her partner and her parent. Opening the book on the first page (a rudimentary table of contents) she tracks her finger downwards until he stops her with the smallest of murmurs.

‘Medical?’ she confirms, before flipping through the book. When they get there, she is glad she ordered the words alphabetically, because that means the one she guesses he wants is quite close to the top. She tracks again anyway, of course, but his soft sound when her finger falls on the fifth word tells her she predicted correctly. ‘No anaesthetic?’ she offers, adding an even gentler second query when he agrees. ‘Does it scare you?’ The terror in his eyes informs her there was actually no need to ask and, on one level, she comprehends – the semi-consciousness of sleep is difficult enough, so the prospect of being plunged into an enforced stupor would cause him to panic, being unsure if the promised oblivion would still include his dreams. On the other, though, she is confused; because, after years of privation, she herself could not but be grateful for the availability of things like analgesia and anaesthesia. Even the so-called “local” kind.

As both a patient and practitioner.

Still, fear is a powerful thing, and (if he will not be calm enough) his body might not respond properly to the administered medicine. She therefore decides not to push persuasion, but instead come to a compromise. ‘You’ll need an NG – nasogastric – tube, then,’ she puts in, still sticking to the safety of terminology. Seeing his surprise at her apparent acquiescence, however, is incentive for another, less distanced, comment on his choices. ‘I won’t watch you starve,’ she states, simply but boldly, childhood finally filtering through as she hears the fear in her own voice and imagines _he_ can see it in her eyes.

So much for the evasion of emotion.

‘I’m sorry,’ she adds, ashamed by the thickness of her speech, and the tears which (if the sight and sound of splashes is anything to go by) seem to be finding their way from her face down to the duvet.

Charles grunts, wanting to shush her apology, and attempts to smile in sympathy. Ever alert, Patsy flips back through to the contents page, thinking he has something to say. Her index finger hovers over each of the section headings in turn until he stops her at the one labelled ‘Feelings’. This tickles her almost enough to laugh, but thankfully not quite, because she is glad to avoid the indignity of hiccoughs likely to be brought on by crying combined with chuckles. So she merely moves through the book in search of his request, reaching the page and then hovering again until he halts when she gets to where he wants.

And where does he want? “Good.”

‘Good?’ she asks, verbalising the word in anticipation of either agreement or disagreement, bemused because he could say it fairly simply – until she realises he was delaying the discovery in order to let her cry. Rather than be annoyed, though, she elects to be equally impish and play along. ‘Good to cry?’ He grants her a hum, and she hitches her knees up a little beneath the covers before granting _him_ a reply. ‘Hypocrite,’ she mutters, turning her head to flash him a humorous (and humouring) grin through the tears continuing to fall.

‘Yes,’ he says, his voice more sincere for its softness, and she smiles again.

‘Delia tells me the same thing,’ she offers, sniffing and reaching for a tissue from the box at conveniently-close hand, then adding an afterthought. ‘I’m not sure how I feel about you and her ganging up on me despite the several thousand miles between the three of us.’

Charles barks out a laugh, then coughs, and Patsy thumps him soundly on the back, her already ruffled red hair bouncing with the effort as she resists the urge to retort, “Serves you right”. He knows her mind well again now, however, so fashions an impertinent answer of his own by flicking his gaze towards the telephone. She sees his intention, and verbally interprets it, a guilty grimace passing over her face. ‘I have tried to call,’ she says, the statement overly-simplified but nevertheless true. She has. The fact that trying has never got beyond stilted apologies for “wasting” the operator’s time, followed by the hurried replacement of the receiver, is a sentiment she keeps to herself. As far as she can, anyway, because she wagers (in the few weeks since they stopped reading actual literature) he has learnt to read _her_ like a book once more.

This allows him to pick up on her desire for deflection, though, so he flicks his eyes down in the vague direction of the notebook to signal he has more to say. She notices immediately, and thumbs back through to the contents, but he stops her when she reaches the page before it. This is a glossary of frequently-required phrases, although it has ironically been little-used thus far, so she finds his selection of it worrying. He has guessed it will spook her, but the syllables he needs are too difficult to say now, and he can think of no other option. At least on this page, as per his instruction, the words are ordered by priority rather than letter. That means her finger only has to travel to the second line.

‘Thank you?’ she clarifies, and he grins, glad that the lopsidedness can be passed off as a family trait instead of a neurological irritation. She mirrors his smile, confirming the connection, and then giggles. ‘Whatever for? Getting your sheets wet with my tears?’ Charles’ own eyes sparkle with a mixture of mirth and moisture, and Patsy reads the meaning he could not voice in his piercing, if slightly clouded, gaze – thank you for persuading me to be reasonable about the tube. She simply squeezes his hand and, having checked that he is done speaking for a while, shuts the notebook and shoves it back on the bedside table. ‘Sleep time?’ she whispers after stretching across him again, waiting for yet another brief but affirmative buzz before getting up to lie him down. Once he is settled, she moves to return for snuggles, but stoops briefly to drop a kiss on his cheek. This is as much part of their routine as anything else, now, and it is really taking the edge off more difficult decisions like the one they have debated today.

He deserves it.

So does she.

Besides, she thinks, when she eventually re-enters the bed to hold his hand as he drifts off, they ought to get used to talking through touch prior to its transfer from a nicety to a necessity – because, for all the languages they do speak, _that_ is one in which neither of them feel fluent.

At least not together.

With Delia it is different. But Delia is not here. And oh, how Patsy wishes she were, so she would not have to face the fear – the fear that made her crack just now and cry – of losing “Papa” alone.

For now, however, he is still here. Close enough to hug. And his agreement to the tube will let him stay longer, so she may push thoughts about their time together to the forefront of her mind again.

‘Small mercies, Patience,’ she whispers against his shoulder whilst he sleeps, her shield now neither literature nor medicine but the echoes of her mother’s voice. The realisation of what she has said brings on fresh sobs (their source a strange blend of grief and gratitude) which she stifles.

It would not do to wake one parent on the pretext of remembering the other.

And he is still here.

He is still here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a complex relationship with feeding tubes (for reasons which will be made a tiny bit clearer in the next chapter) so this update was hard to write, but felt important to include.
> 
> I hope it reads as appropriate rather than gratuitous.


	11. Mid-October 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy and Charles realise they have another way to communicate; one they had forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff with feelings, featuring three songs, which can be found at these links if you'd like to follow along: https://youtu.be/Cns1siMASXQ, https://youtu.be/WTCZ8rmbmYo, https://youtu.be/cFZL4P0-cx0
> 
> Posted with thanks for your patience on this update. A combination of thesis chapters and sleep deprivation is responsible for its delay. Hopefully it's worth the wait - and suitably fluffy in comparison to the previous one.

A fortnight or so after his agreement to the tube, the change in Charles is striking in the best sense of the word, and Patsy finds herself feeling almost giddy with relief. He is staying awake for longer now he has more consistent calories going in, because his energy is not all expended through the very effort of eating, and that means they may have more than a few snatched moments between his naps. True, they both know the break will be a brief one, and it does not disguise the frank fact of his degeneration. True, too, she still struggles with the sight of it, taped carefully to his face just beneath the nose, and the thought that he looks like one of the really premature babies she once saw during training. The tiny tot who could not suck, just as her father cannot swallow. How strange it is that birth and death can seem so similar, she muses as she sits beside him in bed, remembering conversations with Jenny Lee in the outside areas of the London. When the eager midwife had regaled her with stories of her first weeks on District and the frankly astonishing survival of another very premature child, Patsy had been awestruck, and wondered if that, perhaps, might be _her_ place too. If the task of assisting with the beginnings of life would help her work through the agony of watching two of the most important end. And it had turned out to be the right decision; just as it had been the correct choice to take a leave of absence from that same career change and come over here to say farewell to a third important person.

Not that it really feels like a goodbye – at least only some of the time, anyway – because there has been so much to catch up on that they have thought of it more as a prolonged (and long overdue) hello. Yes there is sadness, as was evidenced by her tears two weeks ago at the thought of him wasting away; and they are at the point where he has at last lost his speech. But they – she – forgot that there would be more than touch left as the language they can both use.

There is another vocabulary. One in which she has been well-versed since long before even the last time they saw each other and which, if she thinks back, she learnt from him.

From them.

Her Mama and Papa.

Music.

She really ought to have thought of it before today, too, because they have talked of it often enough. Even _listened_ occasionally, since that afternoon in late July when they eventually started sharing stories of their family, and she was bold enough to browse his record collection, bringing him Ozzie Nelson and a barrage of questions about “Dream a Little Dream of Me”.

Yet she has not remembered that facility in all the months which followed, because actual conversations were much more exciting, and precious. To be savoured until the time at which they no longer proved possible. Like this afternoon. So now, as distraction for them both from the fact that any and all future dialogue will be a monologue instead of a duologue, they have delved into the stores for his records once more. This time, though, it is Charles who has done the choosing – and Patsy is beginning to regret that change in dynamic. Not because their tastes are dissimilar, or the gulf between their generations feels too wide, but, well, almost the opposite. Sitting here, next to him, she realises yet again how alike they are; and that makes her heart ache. Literally. Or so it seems.

Until, that is, he interrupts her woolgathering, spells out “the Andrews Sisters” with the alphabet on the back page of his book, and the song of theirs he selects fills her with an uncontrollable urge to laugh rather than cry. She had thought puns would be beyond him by this point…but she has apparently grossly underestimated his tenacity. The single is from 1946, and titled “Patience and Fortitude”, off the eponymous album.

Because _of course_ it is.

‘ _Touché_ , Papa,’ she grumbles with a giggle as she slides out of bed to put the disc on. Although slightly irked by the glint in his eye, she is also pretty pleased by his choice. It is not a song they would ever have listened to together, by virtue (virtue!) of the release date, but that makes it mean more somehow. If he had sought it out separately, that suggests he was thinking of her.

Could she possibly have been so much on his mind?

A part of her knows the answer to that question is a resounding ‘yes!’ – shored up by the myriad examples of his emotional investment she has been offered over the past months. Still, for _other_ parts of her, the sting of his apparent desertion remains raw enough that she requires continual (and frequent) reinforcement. Consequently, having concealed her initial response by staying near the player for the duration of the track (despite barely registering the actual lyrics), she seeks affirmation when it ends. ‘Did you hear this for the first time and think of me?’ she asks, softly, as she turns to meet his gaze.

The tears tracking down his cheeks say more than even a single word ever could. At the sight of them, her own barriers break, and she feels streams of hot liquid falling from her eyes. She will grab them both a tissue in a moment, but first, she has a plan. One which causes her to be thankful for her father’s obstinate insistence that his entire collection (in all its many boxes) be brought in here. Charles is confused when she does not return to his side immediately, she can tell, but she merely says, ‘My turn now.’ Then she spins on her heel a second time, fumbling for another Andrews Sisters’ offering, from five years before the one he chose. Once it is secure on its B-Side, she rejoins him in bed, wiping each corner of two pairs of blue eyes as they listen:

_‘When stars appear, I seem to hear a serenade_

_I watch the moon, and then my tune is softly played_

_The music thrills and gently fills my heart with bliss_

_I hear the theme and want to dream and reminisce_

_I close my eyes ’neath the blanket of indigo skies_

_And my serenade sighs like a breeze from heaven above_

_Even at dawn, when the stars and the moonlight have gone_

_My refrain lingers on, like a memory of love_

_The love has flown, and I’m always alone_

_I’m not afraid_

_I’ll always keep my dreamy, my sleepy serenade_

_I like to dream, a sleeping serenade and dream my life away_

_To a dreamy sleepy serenade_ _’_

When the song gives way to the empty crackling of the shellac, she reaches for another tissue, repeating the motion to remove the stains of several further tears from their faces. Only once they are both presentable does she speak again. ‘I’m surprised you still have this, I must say,’ she starts, stammering a little from embarrassment at what her surprise implies. She had not supposed he would buy it again after everything. Why should he have, when she was (they were) not around? And yet here it is, like _The Secret Garden_ and _A Little Princess_ , the William Carlos Williams anthology, and all the other aspects of their previous life he has kept around him. All apart from a piano. Understandably. So, after a gentle squeeze of his hand, she continues the conversation with a kind question. ‘You bought me a copy when I was eight, do you remember?’ His eyes smile; she grins with her mouth and goes on. ‘Mama was quietly furious with you for weeks, because I refused to go to sleep without listening to it.’

Patsy pauses, swearing she can hear him chuckle, and Charles uses the opportunity to indicate he wants his book again. She grabs it, flicking as fast as she can through to the alphabet, since that has become his preferred page by far. Her hand hovers over the first box as she watches for his blink. ‘A?’ she asks when the box is confirmed. He blinks again and she giggles. ‘A-Side?’ Another blink; and this one makes her blush. ‘ _No, Papa_ ,’ she pleads, whining for effect, like her eight-year-old self might have done. Then she mimics her mother in voicing what she now realises was the real reason for her silent seething – despite the fact that Patsy had only ever had ears for the B-Side, anyway. ‘That’s hardly an appropriate song for a daughter to associate with her father.’

Charles’ eyes simply glint all the more daringly with mischief, however, and eventually she huffs and gives in. ‘ _Fine_ ,’ she says, matching his mischief with some sass, but reflexively saving the rest of the sentence for when she is sufficiently out of his reach. ‘I’ve never cared about money, though,’ she adds as she adjusts the record. ‘And I’m not angling for anything from you, although I will gratefully accept your very generous offer of Mama’s ring.’

And the rest, Charles thinks determinedly to himself, whilst she slips back into bed, deciding it is a good thing such revelations must, of necessity, wait until she reads the will. For now he is content to sit here, with her, and quietly absorb the joy of her laugh as they communicate through music in the way they once did.

They _all_ did.

He hopes Lizzy would approve – although, like his daughter, he has his doubts about her opinion of this particular song:

 _‘Hey, listen to my story ’bout a gal named Daisy Mae_  
_Lazy Daisy Mae_  
_Her disposition is rather sweet and charming_  
_At times alarming, so they say_  
_She has a man who’s tall dark handsome, large and strong_  
_To whom she used to sing this song_  
  
_Hey, Daddy, I want a diamond ring, bracelets, everything_  
_Daddy, you oughta get the best for me_  
_Hey, Daddy, gee, don't I look swell in sables?_  
_Clothes with Paris labels?_  
_Daddy, you oughta get the best for me_  
  
_Here’s ‘n’amazing revelation_  
_With a bit of stimulation_  
_I’d be a great sensation_  
_I’d be your inspiration_  
  
_Daddy, I want a brand new car, champagne, caviar_  
_Daddy, you oughta get the best for me_  
  
_Hey, Daddy, I want a diamond ring, bracelets, everything_  
_Daddy, you oughta get the best for me_  
_Hey, Daddy, gee, don't I look swell in sables?_  
_Clothes with Paris labels?_  
_Daddy, you oughta get the best for me’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one will arrive fairly shortly, and changes style a little, so hopefully you'll approve. Thank you for continuing to read and comment on this digression of mine. It really does mean a lot.


	12. Late October 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Hong Kong, Patsy and Charles come to terms with the concept of worlds ending, both politically and personally - and Charles gives her another gift. In Poplar (!), Phyllis and Delia have a much-needed late night chat.
> 
> Fluff, but with a lot of feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a little longer because it's a little longer than any of the other chapters, but I really wanted to do this bit justice because of the subject matter. Hopefully the slight shift in perspective is approved of, as well as the appearance of certain other characters! Posted with huge thanks for the kindness of the comments on the previous chapter.
> 
> CW for in-depth introspection on the impact of the Cuban Missile Crisis for Patsy, and brief references to Delia's accident.

Patsy has a strange sense of déjà-vu on this October day. Well, not quite. It is not that she – they – have been here before; more that they are back where they began. At least, back where they were when Charles first asked what she was reading in July.

It feels the same, but also different.

She is occupied, as she was that day, but by the newspaper rather than a children’s book – and her concentration is more firmly on her father. She has been reading him extracts in an attempt to divert his attention from the plethora of pains plaguing his body. He is mostly silent, as he was that day, but it is now not through choice; although neither of them is keen to acknowledge that. The wireless is on, as it was that day, but (instead of it providing little more than low-level background noise) it is turned up high enough that they can not only hear but listen.

Intently, at that.

For whilst the headlines are relevant, they are delayed; the radio broadcast is almost immediate and has them riveted. As it has done for the last few days, and will do until the current crisis around Cuba blows over. Or blows up. Blows _everyone_ up. Because either is a possibility at this point. And they have lived with – thanks to? – the consequences of the latter. _Consequently_ , they don’t know what to think, or how to feel. True, there is nothing they can do (nothing practical or concrete, anyway), but it is a distraction from their personal problems. So here they are, huddled together under the covers in what was already his bunker of a bedroom, fixated on the impending global catastrophe. The fierce storms of feelings making waves in both their guts have a different source today, and that is certainly a mercy, however small.

During a pause in reading prompted by Charles requiring assistance with a cough, Patsy permits herself to wonder whether Delia might be similarly preoccupied by politics, and is struck by the thought that the second anniversary of her accident is fast approaching. Oh gosh, how selfish she has been these past few days, she realises guiltily. She really ought to call. After all, Nonnatus is “on the telephone” as Mrs Busby would say. A telephone she herself has used more times than she can count. A telephone she has even _called_ on several occasions since being here, before getting spooked and hanging up. There really is no excuse for such evasion. This is different from after the accident. _She_ has the physical ability to make contact. The financial one, too. The _emotional_ one, however, seems entirely absent.

Were the situation reversed, Delia would surely call, would she not?

She cannot bring herself to answer that, even in her head, so she shifts her anxiety to another plane of perspective – the time zones make things so tricky.

They mean that, if the world is to end tomorrow (or even the tomorrow after that), it will be a different day here than in England.

The concept sets her mind spinning, almost enough to make her retch. The complexities of existence have often brought her comfort, by reminding her of her own insignificance, but the connection between this potential nuclear event and the actual ones in her childhood seems scary. At least, this time, she is with her father. Is it morbid, she muses, to think what a blessing it would be that they could go together?

Probably.

Particularly as, whatever happens, he may not be around much longer afterwards anyway.

If she is honest, she had not even vaguely considered the possibility of him contracting pneumonia in this environment, surrounded as he is by consummate professionals providing the highest standards of care. It would appear, though, that his anxiety about the anaesthetic meant they delayed slightly too long with the tube, and a seemingly tiny amount of aspiration caused sufficient aggravation in his lungs to spark off the sickness. She is furious with herself for her complacency, but also aware from his papers that this is almost his preference. Pain will not be prolonged “unnecessarily”. This is the perennial puzzle of palliative care, she has decided. She remembers it well from training, placements, even the occasional case on Male Surgical or District, but now she is getting to experience it with all the emotions of a personal connection thrown in too. She supposes she already had, with Mama and Grace, but the circumstances were so vastly different that she feels unable to form a comparison.

But…

Well…

He is still too young. She still wants to keep him here. Even if she knows she cannot.

_She_ is still too young to let him go.

And the confusion of this conundrum, respecting his wishes and what makes sense over her own emotional sensibility, is perhaps the hardest she has ever faced. She finds herself laughing inwardly, ironically, because she longs for Phyllis to pop up and offer a cryptic crossword to tease out instead.

As Charles finally finishes coughing, however, her attention is returned to the room via the requirement of another kind of code to decipher. He wants his book, and to tell her something. So she reaches for it, confirms he needs the alphabet, and dutifully flicks through to the last page – the lines of which are filled with suitably spaced-out letters neatly enclosed in individual boxes, and a couple of instructions:

A          B          C          D         E

F          G          H         I           J

K          L          M         N         O

P          Q          R          S          T

U          V          W        X          Y

Z New Word New Sentence

 

Holding the book up with her left hand so Charles can see it clearly, Patsy uses the index finger of her right to point out the boxes, at the same time speaking her actions aloud. ‘First row?’

No blink.

‘Second row?’

No blink.

‘Third row?’

No blink.

‘Fourth row?’

A blink.

‘P, Q, R, S –’

A blink to make her stop.

‘S. First row?’

No blink.

‘Second row?’

A blink.

‘F, G, H –’

Another stalling blink.

‘S H. First row?’

No blink.

‘Second row?’

A blink.

‘F, G, H, I –’

A blink to stop her again.

‘S H I –’ She pauses here, raising an eyebrow in assumption, but then continues because that is her duty as his daughter. ‘First row?’

No blink.

‘Second row?’

No blink.

‘Third row?’

No blink.

‘Fourth row?’

A blink, at which she blushes, already cycling through the letter options in her mind.

‘P, Q, R –’

Another blink to stop her.

‘S H I R –’ She pauses, flashing him a relieved smile, but then guesses the final letter and gabbles on. ‘Shirt? Do you need to change your shirt? Are you too hot?’ Panic rises instantly from her gut, as she imagines the implications if he does and is, because it will likely signal the spike of a fever. He does not blink, however, and his calmly assessing gaze allows her to acknowledge that she is leaping to conclusions far too quickly. ‘Sorry,’ she says sheepishly, ‘let’s try that again, shall we?’ He blinks, and she grins, before repeating the first question. ‘Do you need to change your shirt?’ He does not blink, but attempts to flick his focus towards the wardrobe. Thankfully, she is tuned in, and follows his eyes. ‘Do you want to sort through your shirts?’ He blinks at last, and she exhales on a small giggle, amused that they appear to share strategies for managing anxiety.

She is also a little intrigued.

She has neither needed nor dared to venture into his wardrobe prior to this point, as Agatha and Martha have helped with dressing throughout her stay, at his request. There is therefore no knowing what she will find when she opens it. But that is exciting, and this is a clever idea for distraction, since it will give them a structure and a specific goal. Besides, if her overly-present internal monologue is anything to go by, she is more than done with news. So she nods, smiling once more, and gets up to walk the short distance across the room. Each step is taken with both grace and gratitude; a combined consciousness of all the brilliant physical functions which give her the chance to move in this way. When she gets where she wants to go, the grace and gratitude are joined by glee. A glee that they are working in tandem, to cope constructively with everything thrown up in their comparatively tiny familial world by this situation in the larger, wider one. Then she realises she is being overly-analytical again, so prevents any further prevarication by flinging the doors open…

…to reveal a selection of checked shirts the extent of which she has only ever seen in one other wardrobe: her own.

She ought not to be surprised, really, since he has worn a fair few throughout her visit, if she thinks back. But she cannot help gasping aloud. The sight of them arranged in regimented rows, just as hers have been in each of her respective rooms (meticulously kept ready for any of the cherished chances to forgo her various uniforms), is just so visually arresting. Swiftly shifting the gasp into another giggle, she turns to face him again, and revels briefly in the brightness of his eyes. ‘Impressive,’ she says, indicating behind her now, before beginning to unhook each hanger from the rail with the intention of laying the shirts gently on the bed.

But Charles coughs, so she stops, concerned.

‘All right?’ she asks as she whirls around for a third time. He blinks, and she breathes out, although she is bemused by the apparent extra sparkle in his smiling eyes. ‘What?’

He says nothing, and probably would have stayed silent in this situation even if he _could_ speak, because he is rather enjoying watching her and waiting for the moment the realisation hits. As it does; once he manages to move his eyes enough to train them on the shirt she is currently holding.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ she squeals, ‘you want me to put it on?’

He blinks again, and she grins, determined to avoid the embarrassment of tears. Then she turns for a fourth time, affording them both some privacy, even as they mutually observe her total lack of worry about him seeing her scars. He has his own and they render shame redundant. Today of all days. So she simply slips her blouse off and his shirt on. It is too big, of course it is, but she has always preferred oversized shirts. And the colour combination (yellow, blue and beige) is one she does not have herself. But mostly, as she says to him in the next second, ‘Thank you, Papa. It feels like you’re hugging me.’

Which is what they both need as they wait, together, wondering if the world will end.

~

‘Can’t sleep, lass?’ Phyllis asks on a whisper when she sees a certain young and lonely Welshwoman still sitting downstairs and supposedly intent on reading.

Delia slams her book shut with practised ease, the movement hiding the panic at potential discovery which springs immediately from her stomach. Then she registers the accent of the enquiry, and relaxes a little, sighing with relief before she replies. ‘No,’ she admits, her tone equally quiet, ‘and now I can’t focus on anything, either.’

‘Unsurprising at this time of year, regardless of anything else,’ her older colleague and friend replies immediately, still keeping her voice low.

‘You remember?’

A brunette nod answers the other brunette’s incredulous question. ‘I drove Patsy to the hospital to see you because only relatives were given information over the telephone.’

Delia hears the disapproving edge to the latter part of Phyllis’ sentence, and is once again filled with gratitude for her staunch solidarity. It is also nice to know she was as supportive towards her partner as she has been to her; Patsy has not mentioned much about that time.

Of course.

‘Thank you,’ she says, meaning it, but _Phyllis_ can hear the edge of despair in this phrase, and sits down beside her.

‘My mind is a muddle tonight, too,’ she offers, ‘so I decided to come downstairs and tackle today’s cryptic crossword. I save them for exactly these sorts of situations. Fancy joining me?’

‘All right,’ Delia mumbles, with a sheepish grin, but brightens as she chooses to grasp this proffered olive branch more tightly. ‘What’s the first clue?’

Phyllis smiles and peers at the page. ‘One across: Brave, father turns his back on pain. Six letters.’

The overwrought Welshwoman either cannot or does not stop the snort this description inspires. ‘If there were one extra letter, I’d say it was “Charles”,’ she chokes out, earning a reproving glance from her usually impartial mentor.

‘Compassion above all things, Nurse Busby,’ the veteran midwife says calmly. ‘Although I do understand your feelings in that… regard. Promise me you’ll call if this political mess goes on much longer?’

‘I’ll try, Nurse Crane,’ is Delia’s only slightly sardonic response. ‘If the world hasn’t ended tomorrow.’

For tonight, after they finish the crossword, her only plan is to get simultaneously sad and happy by smelling her Precious Pats’ perfume. It feels like she is hugging her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the historical placement of this:
> 
> This chapter occurs on 25th October 1962, so towards the end of the crisis, though none of the characters know how much longer it will persist. Also, that crossword clue? From the actual crossword in The Times on that date, because I'm a nerd.
> 
> For those who don't want the answer, look away now...
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> For those who do, it was Apache.


	13. Early November 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy seeks solace once again in nature and literature when she is _once again_ unable to find words of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The final, and hardest to write, chapter of this short digression away from _Hopes and Fears_. Posted with thanks for your patience, and kindness in the comments and elsewhere. I hope I've done this bit justice. Thanks for sticking with it, and with me.

The world as a whole might not have ended, but Patsy feels like _hers_ has. In circumstances other than the recent global political crisis, and those of her childhood, such an admission would appear melodramatic. With them as a backdrop, however, it seems the only _appropriate_ response. Not that she has much sense of what amounts to _appropriateness_ any more. It is as though she has reverted to, and is reliving, the liminal space between the end of the war and actual Liberation. No. Before then. She is overwhelmed by the bizarre dissonance she is experiencing being in this lovely, lush environment whilst also surrounded by the horrible and harsh reality of death. It reminds her (of course it does) of those interminable mother-and sisterless months in the breathtaking beauty of the Belalau Plantation. It draws her, though, almost like a drug; she is powerless to resist its pull. Having hardly ventured outside for the duration of her visit, now (in the mere four hours since his death), she must have walked the full expanse of the fairly extensive garden at least twice. Barefoot, too, in defiance of whispered warnings about the weather. A childish impulse to match all the childish – no, _childhood_ – emotions in her she feels utterly incapable of expressing. Yet it is also utterly adult. A literal grounding tactic to stem the surge of grief. Since the weather warnings which worry _her_ are _internal_. She figures feeling actual earth beneath her feet will reinforce stability and solidity when it seems as though she is a raft unmoored, with nothing to tether her amidst the tide of as yet unwept tears she nevertheless knows is nearby.

It will break shortly.

She is sure of that.

And she anticipates its arrival with more anxiety than she could ever drum up to dread a real rainstorm. The tricksy truth of her trauma is that she is in her element in this environment. So she has walked, and she is walking. With no-one around to stop her; at least no-one who would dare. She is an adult now, after all, and (aside from any other considerations) nigh impossible to carry without her full co-operation.

The weather breaks before her brain does, however, so she consequently has no choice but to take cover. Even in her overwrought state, she remains medically-minded, and (given the nature of the sickness to which he eventually succumbed) she cannot risk her own relatively fragile chest. She therefore rushes into the house, albeit reluctantly. She cannot bear to be in a bedroom, however, either his or hers – because his will require her to make conversation and hers will mean she is both inside and alone with her thoughts. Polar opposite reasons which are equally prevalent in her psyche. So, having found the slippers she had discarded by the front door, she slips them on (purely for propriety’s sake) and wends her way towards the library.

Finding language in literature once more now her own words have gone again.

She has no doubt about her choice of book. It is one which seemed too much a mere few months back – for them both – and they had mutually elected to abandon. It is _still_ too much now, in some ways, but today she almost _needs_ too much. Like the garden and its signification of both pain and beauty. A dissonant discomfort which manages to be comforting. It is curious, she thinks. And curiouser. Curiouser and curiouser. She laughs a little at that, and wonders if she should perhaps pick _Alice in Wonderland_ instead, but the sound she hears ringing around the otherwise empty room is hollow and puts her off. She is not quite ready for humour. Not yet. Besides, Belalau is present enough without the direct reminder of another, subtler, source of her girlhood grief. She has no desire to mourn Miss Dryburgh today.

Only Papa.

Secure in her original strategy, then, she reaches to fetch the book before dashing to curl up on the window-seat. Opening it with a careful caress, she offers its crinkled pages all the affection she wishes she could still give to the parent for whom they now act as a  paper proxy, and flicks through to chapter eight. She reads aloud, as she would have for him. Her voice wavers, but she is doggedly determined in reciting these sensitive sentences, ignoring the extra crinkles in the pages caused by the monsoon at last pouring from her eyes.

It is now, she muses as she speaks, but she wishes it were never. Her transformation into an adult archetype of Sara Crewe is complete:

_‘The first night she spent in her attic was a thing Sara never forgot. During its passing she lived through a wild, unchildlike woe of which she never spoke to anyone about her. There was no one who would have understood. It was, indeed, well for her that as she lay awake in the darkness her mind was forcibly distracted, now and then, by the strangeness of her surroundings. It was, perhaps, well for her that she was reminded by her small body of material things. If this had not been so, the anguish of her young mind might have been too great for a child to bear. But, really, while the night was passing she scarcely knew that she had a body at all or remembered any other thing than one._

_“My papa is dead!” she kept whispering to herself. “My papa is dead!”’_


End file.
